“I daresay you are. But I’ve done it regularly for years and you know why. You’ve a lot to lose, let me remind you,” Richard said, taking Herbert’s arm and steering him farther across the drying yard, to make sure that no one in the workshop could hear them. There were no flapping cloths to get in their way on this November day; it was too cold for outdoor drying. Cloth had to be hung inside the workshop. “You’ve a reputation,” said Richard, “for good work and honesty. Why gamble with it?”
“I didn’t, and nor did Simon.”
“I think he did, whether you knew it or not. Like father, like son.”
“Simon’s a fine man. I was so thankful when he came back safe from Bosworth and—”
“May you go on feeling thankful for him. Now listen, Dyer, this is the first time you’ve slipped in all these years and I’m not vindictive. But if it happens again, I’ll set the Watchet constable on you. I mean it. This set of bills hasn’t been sent out yet. The ones with the overcharging must be made out again, correctly. You understand?”
Herbert looked at him. “I could kill you sometimes, Lanyon. I’ve often wanted to, when again and again you come prowling and prying into things that ought to be private to me and Simon.”
“You’d have been publicly disgraced long ago if I hadn’t,” said Richard coolly. “You won’t want to house me tonight,” he added. “I’m going home by way of Dulverton, so I’ll leave now and stay the night at Cleeve Abbey. It’s in the right direction.”
“I see,” said Simon Dyer grimly to his father. “Everyone else does it now and again. It makes up for the bad payers. But we mustn’t. We’ve got to be as virtuous as angels in a world where honest profits never make a man rich. That fellow Lanyon is the worst, nosiest interferer that was ever born.”
“I hate him,” said Herbert morosely. “I hate all the Lanyons, but mostly him. I reckon his son and Liza were his pawns when they came here prying that time, that’s all. Richard’s the one who’s stood over me all these years, and it’s Richard I blame for destroying my marriage. Margaret was a good woman and I could have made her happy, if I’d had the chance. I’d do Master Lanyon a bad turn any time.”
Cleeve Abbey made its guests comfortable in an austere fashion. The guest house had neither wall hangings nor floor rushes, but the straw-filled pallets were clean. Similarly, the food, though plain, was plentiful. Richard ate and slept satisfactorily, made a donation to the abbey funds in the morning, had an interesting discussion with the abbot about sheep breeding and then started out for Dulverton, a long ride and a long route home, but Liza had asked him to visit Dulverton to buy some salt and a supply of candles.
The weather was cold and the moors misty, but the monks rose early and so did their guests. It was still only noon when he trotted Patches into the busy little town, where the clatter of looms was as persistent as it was in Dunster. Like Dunster, it had a cloth exclusive to itself.
It also had a town crier. As he rode toward Fore Street, its principal thoroughfare, he heard the jangling bell and the powerful voice of the crier announcing a proclamation. Touching his heels to Patches’s sides, he caught up with the tail end of the crowd of townspeople who were following the bell toward the church. They all halted as the crier reached the churchyard gate and stood there, once more ringing his bell, until he was sure he had assembled the best possible audience.
Then he made his announcement.
Richard had to put a hand hard against his mouth in order to keep from laughing. Oh yes, this was news indeed. It was the best joke he’d ever heard. Thank God Ned Crowham had made Peter change sides at Bosworth.
He dined in Dulverton and bought good supplies of salt and candles, hiring a mule to carry them. It was coming up to the time of year when they would need candles in the evening and soon, too, they would be slaughtering pigs and salting the bacon. As he rode on home, going slowly because of the mule (pack animals were always a hindrance, which was why he hadn’t taken a pack pony with him from home), he thought about the town crier’s news. Halfway home, an interesting idea came into his head. He couldn’t, straightaway, be quite sure about it. Perhaps it would be too expensive—or perhaps his family might object so strongly that they would stand shoulder to shoulder and actually defy him. But it was certainly an idea. That would put those arrogant Sweetwaters in their place, once and for all, and it was time that young Quentin learned that young women ought to know their place, too, and not spring like mad things to the defence of faithless wives.
So this was love, thought Quentin. This was what it felt like to be enthralled by a man. Enthralled. Placed in thralldom. Placed under tyranny. That side of it was something her mother hadn’t mentioned.
John Sweetwater haunted her. He walked invisibly by her side wherever she went. The image of him standing alone at his father’s graveside, and his face and his smile when she spoke to him were as vivid in her mind as though the printer William Caxton had used her brain as a sheet of paper. They hung in the air between her and the real world. They were probably in her dreams, except that she usually forgot her dreams in the morning.
Hitherto, she had been an industrious girl, helping in the house, caring for cows and poultry, spinning and weaving. Now, although winter was setting in, bringing heavy mists, or else cold winds that hissed across the heather and made the dry bracken rustle, she suddenly began to make excuses to walk or ride on the moor or go down to Clicket.
Finding the excuses wasn’t difficult. Liza, as though trying in some way to make reparation for her past, had taken to being charitable. Down in Clicket, Deb Archer’s former maid Allie was now a widow and in need. Her only son had gone to sea and Allie made out as best she could, keeping geese and chickens and growing vegetables. Liza sometimes made gifts to her of bacon or butter.
Sometimes, too, she sent small gifts to Tilly Lowe at what was now the Shearers’ farm. In old age, Tilly had become pathetic, bullied by Martha and Martha’s husband, Andrew, and sometimes by their sharp-featured fourteen-year-old-son, Philip, as well. They were a hardworking family, but impatient and parsimonious and grudged giving houseroom to Tilly, who was lame and trembly but struggled to justify her dragged-out existence by shelling peas and twirling a spindle.
“All three of them shout at her and I’ve seen her crying over it,” Liza said indignantly when Richard protested that she was giving away too much. “And I’m sure they don’t give her enough to eat. Now, you take these oatcakes to her, Quentin, and this flask of elderflower wine, and see the others aren’t by when you give them to her. They’ll grab the things for themselves if they get a chance.”
Liza, often busy and no longer comfortable on a pony or as fond of walking as she used to be, frequently asked Quentin to be her messenger, and Quentin, these days, was more than willing to go. She went with eyes wide open, scanning the world around her for glimpses of John Sweetwater. Quite simply, she yearned to see him again, if only from a distance.
Now and then, she was lucky. Once she saw him out on the moor, cantering along on a fine black horse with bridle and scalloped reins of crimson, and carrying a goshawk on his arm. Once, visiting Allie in Clicket, she saw him ride through the street and turn in through the archway to the Sweetwater stable yard. They were glimpses to treasure, to add to her tiny store of mental pictures of him.
She had nothing else. She dared not seek anything further. She ached to be with him, to talk to him, but was afraid to search him out. He would not understand. Even if he responded, it would probably not be in the right way. She was not very old, but she wasn’t foolish. When young men like John Sweetwater talked of love to girls like Quentin Lanyon, they did not talk of marriage, and Quentin knew it.
She must yearn alone, and endure, and hope for a miracle. And try not to be glad that after all she had not been betrothed to poor Eddie Hannacombe, because that meant being glad that Eddie was dead, and that would be very wrong.
The third time she encountered John Sweetwater was again in Clicket, when sh
e was taking more gifts for Allie. “A length of green cloth this time, and a ham,” Liza said, packing the basket. “She doesn’t get much chance of eating meat and last time you went, you said when you came back that her gown was patched. There’s cloth enough here for a new one.”
Quentin had delivered the presents to a very thankful Allie, had stayed for a while to help sort some of the eggs from Allie’s hens, and then said goodbye. As she stepped out again, she saw John riding past. This time he saw her, too, recognised her and smiled. Overcome, Quentin bobbed, smiled back, and felt herself turn scarlet. John, appearing not to notice this, bowed slightly toward her, lifted his black velvet cap about half an inch off his head before putting it back and then trotted on toward his home.
Quentin was left with hammering heart, wild exhilaration at having this new, precious vision of him and fury against herself for behaving like a wantwit, going red and giving him a silly, timid smile when she should have been dignified, given him a polite nod and a gracious, friendly smile as a great lady, an equal of his, would do.
John, riding back to the stable, was amused. She was a pretty thing, that Lanyon wench, and kindhearted. It was a pity that he couldn’t pursue the acquaintance, but he didn’t want to start up the feud between the families again. It seemed to have faded now, a very odd result of his father’s death, considering the circumstances, but this was evidently the way that Grandfather Walter wanted it. The old quarrel would certainly be stirred up, though, if he seduced a Lanyon girl. No. Better leave her alone.
He rode into the stable yard, and found the grooms rubbing down two strange horses. “Have guests arrived?” he asked, swinging a leg over the saddle cantle.
“Royal messengers.” One of the grooms left his task and came over to him. It was John’s custom to see to his horse himself, but this time the reins were firmly taken from him. “They’re with your grandfather now, sir. You may be wanted.”
John raised his brows, but took the hint and went in. Denis Sawyer met him in the door to the great hall. “I’m glad to see you back, sir. There’s grave trouble. Your mother’s beside herself and your grandfather’s well nigh in tears.”
“What in the world…?” Snatching off his cap, John hastened through the entrance vestibule and into the hall. Walter was in his usual chair by the hearth. The fire crackled cheerfully and the hall was quite warm, but Walter was huddled and shivering, as though he had been stricken by winter, while Catherine was walking in distracted circles, wringing her hands. Other servants, including Catherine’s maid Amy, were in the hall, too, standing in clusters, many of the women sobbing.
Also present and apparently quite unmoved by the anguish all around them were two dignified men, dressed alike, in practical dark clothes. One of them turned as John came in, and he saw the red dragon of Henry Tudor embroidered on the man’s doublet.
“Who is this?” said the man, as though this were not John’s own home and John himself the son of the house.
“My grandson,” said Walter. “Whose inheritance you have come to steal. John!”
“What is it? What’s happening?”
“They’re going to take our lands away!” said Catherine on a wail. “The king sent them! We fought for King Richard, but they say it was treason and they’re going to take the Sweetwater property! There’ll be nothing left but my dower lands! They’re letting us keep those, but we used two farms to make up Agnes’s dowry!”
“So that’s just the two farms in Devon left,” observed Sawyer. “Both with tenants. One lot of tenants and their rents must go to make room for our household.”
“Yes. It’s true,” said Walter. His ageing fingers gripped the arms of his chair and his knuckles showed white. “We’ve to be out in a week. Our estate will be sold to feed the royal treasury. The sale is being proclaimed now, today, in Dulverton, in Dunster, in Exford, in Minehead, in Porlock and Lynton and Lynmouth—everywhere! We’re ruined.”
“Well, I’m sorry for them,” said Quentin across the supper table.
Liza looked at her anxiously, and wished her daughter wouldn’t be so downright. It might make Richard angry. Richard had not forgiven Quentin for trying to protect her. He showed it every day, in half a dozen ways—by ignoring his granddaughter, or ordering her about as though she were a slave, or snapping at her for absurdly small reasons: a dish set down with a very slight rattle, a draught when she opened a door, a tear in his hose that she hadn’t mended even though he hadn’t told her it was there.
And today, all day, he’d been in a very curious mood. She had observed it because pouring rain had kept them all engaged on indoor jobs. He was withdrawn, thoughtful, and she had once or twice heard him humming to himself as though he were thinking of something pleasant; yet she had also caught him glancing at her and at Quentin in a way that worried her. It was hard to define, but it looked like triumph. As though he were planning something that he would like and they wouldn’t. It would be better, she felt, if Quentin didn’t provoke him now.
And Quentin had managed to do just that. Richard was glowering at her. “You’re a fool, girl. You’re sorry for everyone. You used to be sorry for Nicky when he asked for a hiding and I gave him one, and you’d probably be sorry for a felon at the end of a rope even if he’d driven your sheep flock away in the night, stolen your purse and had his way with you. Too softhearted for your own good, that’s you, my girl.”
“I was glad myself when I knew that the Sweetwaters weren’t going to be hanged by Henry Tudor,” Peter remarked.
“I daresay. Just because I don’t want them dead doesn’t mean I want them prosperous. Betsy, give me another fried trout. Plenty to go round, now that Alfred’s moved in with his in-laws in Clicket. Don’t know where Hodge got them from, but I’d wager it was out of a stream on Sweetwater land. It usually is. I wonder what Walter Sweetwater’s eating for supper? I doubt he’ll notice the taste, whatever it is. I’m a happy man tonight. Oh, that was a grand moment in Dulverton when I heard the crier give out that the Sweetwater lands were being put up for sale.”
“They’ve been given so little time to leave!” said Quentin. “Imagine how we’d feel!”
“Will you hold your tongue, Quentin? No one wants to know what you think. Fact is,” said Richard, slightly diverted by this interesting topic, “we’re lucky it wasn’t us. Peter here fought for Lancaster at Bosworth, by mistake, so to speak, but anyhow, there he was, on the winning side. The Sweetwaters fought for the house of York. This new king, Henry, he’s dating his reign from the day before Bosworth. Sharp practice if ever I heard it, but I gather he likes money,” said Richard.
For a few moments they ate trout in near silence. Only near silence, because oddly enough, between mouthfuls, Richard seemed to be humming softly to himself again. Liza watched him covertly and nervously. There was something in the wind, most certainly there was, but what?
Then Richard, having mopped up the last of the fish juice with bread, swallowed it, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and declared, “I’ve got something to say. I’ve been thinking it over for a while now and I reckon it can be done, and it’s high time Quentin here was married. I’ve settled on the man.”
There was a staggered silence, until Peter said, “Just a moment. I am Quentin’s father and—”
“And I’m your father and the head of this house. Just be quiet and listen,” Richard barked.
Liza looked at Quentin, whose eyes were terrified. Under the table she reached out and took her daughter’s hand. Everyone waited for Richard to go on.
“I’ll have to make a few enquiries,” Richard said. “The dowry’s important. It’s the heart of the matter, as it happens. First thing I’ve got to do is buy up the Sweetwater lands.”
“The…what?” said Peter, flabbergasted.
“When I heard the announcement in Dulverton,” said his father, unheeding, “there was a name given, an official of some sort, who’s in charge of selling them off. Can’t remember offhand what that name was
but it should be easy enough to find out. I reckon we can do it. Sell off the land we bought with the proceeds of the stone quarry…”
“My stone quarry,” said Peter sharply.
“…and maybe some of the farmland that goes with the quarry as well—not the quarry itself, of course—and very likely it would come to enough, with a bit added from our savings. I’ve been at your abacus, Liza, when you weren’t looking.”
His household stared at him, goggle-eyed. Quentin’s fingers tightened on Liza’s.
“But why buy the Sweetwater lands?” said Peter. “If we’re going to give a dowry to Quentin—and we will have to one day, I agree there—why not just give her the farms you’re talking about selling? Oh.” He snorted. “To upset the Sweetwaters, I suppose, by getting hold of what used to be theirs. I see.”
Richard gave him a complacent glance. “Quite. We really can do it. You always thought that building this house would bankrupt us, boy, but look how we’re flourishing now! It didn’t drain us the way marrying Agnes Sweetwater to a Northcote-Carew crossbreed drained her family. And after they’d wrung out a dowry for her, they hoped Agnes’s in-laws would put Baldwin forward to be Sheriff of Somerset or Devon or something of that sort, but it never happened. She took the husband they bought for her and that was that. How do I know? Folk talk, in the White Hart and every other tavern and at every market.”
Liza said, “And who is the man?”
Richard smiled. “John Sweetwater. And then we hand the family back their land, or some of it anyway as Quentin’s portion. Coals of fire on their arrogant heads. Oh, how I’ll enjoy their faces, trying to smile at the wedding feast.”
“No!” Letting go of Quentin, Liza shot to her feet and her protest came out in a shriek. “You can’t do this! I won’t see Quentin sacrificed, thrown off, thrust into that family—that family…. Well, I hope they won’t accept her. I hope they’ll say no…”
The House of Lanyon Page 44